I Go Where You Go
by DaisyGirlWrites
Summary: They'd been together for a year now. First as reluctant client and sober companion, then work partners and finally best friends. Was there more?


"Watson!"

Joan's bedroom door flew open with the usual force from Holmes' manic energy. "Watson! Rise and shine! Detective Bell just texted me; we have a new case!"

He was so busy pulling an outfit from her closet that he didn't notice that the bed on which he threw the clothes was empty. Unmade; slept in, but empty. He stopped cold. Look around. He immediately noticed Joan's running shoes, usually right beside the bed, were missing, as was her cell phone and iPod. He looked like a dejected child upon noticing all this. For once, Joan Watson, chronic sleepyhead, was up and out of the house for her run before he had a chance to jostle her awake.

His fingers twitching at his sides, he stood there, looking around her bedroom. He'd been in here hundreds of times since she moved in with him almost a year ago. But he never really "saw" the room. He did now. She had added a few personal touches, like a photo of her mom and dad and one of her brother, Oren, and his fiancée. She had a small jewelry box on the bureau. He slowly walked over and opened the box. There were several delicate pairs of earrings, a few gold rings and a couple gold necklaces - most he remembered seeing her wear. A small smile came to him - Joan being Joan, the jewelry box was neat and tidy, not a piece out of place. It was one of the many things he realized he admired about his best friend. (Yes, he could finally admit, at least to himself, that Joan Watson was his best friend.) He picked up the gold lightning bolt necklace and fingered it gently. Again he smiled slightly. This was his favorite. When she wore it, it reminded him that she was his port in the storm. He stopped suddenly, frowning and quickly put the necklace back in the exact spot he found it. He silently chastised himself for thinking these thoughts. _Don't get attached Holmes. You know what happened last time you got attached and cared_. He shook his head as if to wake himself from a daydream. Too late. She's my best friend. How can I not be attached?

He walked over to the window and stared out, seeing the morning traffic but not noticing it. His mind wandered back to the dinner party they went to last weekend at Captain Gregson's home. It was Gregson's 50th birthday and his wife had thrown a small dinner party and invited Sherlock and Joan. Sherlock, as usual, didn't want to go, but Joan convinced him that Gregson's feelings would be hurt if he didn't show up. While Sherlock would never admit it, Captain Gregson was like a father to him, and he didn't want to hurt his feelings. So with much grumbling he agreed to go. Joan insisted on dressing up for the occasion, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Still mumbling to himself as he adjusted his necktie in the mirror in the foyer (a mirror she insisted on hanging there; Sherlock didn't like mirrors) , he heard the click of her heels on the stairway.

" Watson! Do you realize I've been waiting over an hour for you to get ready? I could have solved two cold cases by ..." and as he turned to face her, he stopped and he froze. She was wearing the most stunning black sleeveless dress he'd ever seen. It showed off every curve of her body to great advantage. Her shoes, normally the clunky low boots he often made fun of, were traded in for a pair of sexy black high heels that seemed to make her legs appear longer. She left her hair down but there was a little more wave to it causing it to frame her face just so. He couldn't stop staring.

"Sherlock. What's wrong? Do I have lipstick on my teeth or mascara on my face?" Without waiting for him to answer, she pushed herself in front of him to look in the mirror. He still stood there, his mouth open, as she stood between him and the mirror. Her body was pressed slightly against his; with the added height of her heels, his chin nearly rested on the top of her head. Her perfume filled his senses and it took all his willpower not to wrap his arms around her waist as she stood in front of him. The urge to touch her was so great that he quickly put his hands in his pockets and backed away from her.

His heart still racing, he tried to think of something to say to cover his reaction to seeing her like this. He couldn't think of a single thing. Instead, he grabbed her coat and, holding it for her, gently placed it over her shoulders and they left for the dinner party. The party was a great success; or at least he thinks it was. He couldn't remember much as he spent the entire night watching and thinking about Watson. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. Fortunately (or unfortunately) for him, Watson never noticed him staring at her. She was too busy laughing and having a great time with everyone. It was rare that she got to attend a party, much less one that was with friends who were like family to her now. She was having a fun time and by the time they left, she was exhausted. She leaned her head on Sherlock's shoulder on the ride home in the cab and fell asleep. It took all his control to pretend to ignore it and not reach out and hold her.

Still staring out the window at the traffic, he quickly snapped out his reverie and memories from the other night and turned to scan the rest of the room quickly. He felt like an intruder - this was Joan's sanctum sanctorum. As he looked around, a sadness came over him. Even after a year of living here, after him telling her over and over that his was her home, too, she still hadn't fully moved in. He liked to think he made her feel welcome; he liked to think that she liked living there, with him, solving crimes, righting wrongs, fighting injustice. But why hadn't she made her bedroom more personal? This bothered him. It was a puzzle he'd now have to work on. It was one of many puzzles he was working on when it came to Joan Watson.

However, there was no time. Bell was waiting for him - and Joan - at the crime scene. He pulled out his phone to text Joan the address so she could meet him there after her jog. Knowing Joan, she'd cut her jog short the moment she got the text and she'd had straight back to the brownstone to get ready. Again, he smiled at the thought. He knew her pretty well by now. After all, she was his best friend.

As he turned to leave, a piece of paper on the floor caught his eye. It was actually a portion of the classified section of the local Pennysaver. He bent to pick it up, intent on putting it on the bed, when the markings on the page caught his eye. It was the Apartment Rental section of the paper and several apartment and loft listings were circled in red ink. One was even highlighted in yellow. All were listings for a one-bedroom apartment. He stared at the listings, worry etched on his face. His mind was racing - well, racing more than usual. Was Watson moving out? Once again, he shook his head to get rid of the awful thoughts floating about. Joan leaving. She can't. She can't.

He dropped the newspaper on the bedside table and walked out of Joan's room. Now he had two puzzles to solve: Why Joan hadn't bothered to furnish her bedroom, even after living there for a year and, most importantly, why was she looking for an apartment? He knew the two puzzles played into each other but refused to admit it. She was moving out. "His" Joan was leaving him. He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, slamming the front door so hard the leaded glass pain shook inside it's frame. He hailed a passing cab with his whistle, the same whistle which Joan warned him not to use to hail a cab in New York City.

As the cab pulled away, he saw Joan jogging around the corner heading to the brownstone. Normally, he would have stopped and told her to get in and taken her right to the crime scene. But he was angry. Angry that she was leaving him and hadn't said a word. She could find her own way to the crime scene.

After getting Sherlock's text about the new case Bell needed help on, Joan did exactly as Sherlock predicted she would. She immediately cut her jog short and headed back to the brownstone. Before she even entered her bedroom, she knew exactly what she'd find - an outfit, chosen by Holmes, laid out on her bed. Actually, thrown on her bed. When Holmes first starting waking her up and throwing her clothes on the bed, she used to scream at him. Now, she accepted it as part of her life and smiled to herself. She actually kind of liked it, but she'd never admit it to Holmes. Besides, with his eye for detail, he knew what looked good with each piece and she was always well-dressed for any occasion. Still smiling, she took a quick shower and put her clothes on, headed out the door and headed for the crime scene.

As she got out of the cab at the scene, she saw an odd site. For a crime scene, there were surprising few police officers there. She saw one officer removing the crime scene tape from the front of the house. Looking over slightly to her left she saw Holmes speaking with Detective Bell. As she approached them, Holmes looked at her but then walked away. Not thinking anything of it, she asked Bell what was going on. He explained that it wasn't a crime scene after all.

"Turns out it was a prank. Someone called 911 about gunshots and a dead body. We got here, nothing. All we found was a vacant house and no crime. Third call like this in the past week. Can't seem to trace the calls either. Sorry to bother you and Holmes so early in the morning. Captain Gregson is out of town and I thought, based on the call, that I could use some backup from you two. I guess I should have checked out the scene before calling you."

"No worries," said Joan. "We are always happy to help. I'm sure Sherlock was a bit disappointed though," she said with a slight chuckle. Bell looked at her and smiled. "He sure was. Didn't help that he was already in a bad mood when he got here. Having no crime to solve just made it worse. He's all yours now, Joan. I gotta get back to the precinct."

Joan turned around to look for Holmes. She saw him standing on the sidewalk at the end of the driveway, on his phone. When he saw her looking at him and walking toward him, he again turned away.

"Hey," said Joan. "I got here as soon as I could. Guess we aren't needed after all. Why don't we head back home to work on that Greenwich case? I had some ideas that I wanted to run by you. I was thinking about it last night after I went to bed and some things about the case just aren't making sense." It wasn't until she finished that she realized he still wasn't looking at her. He was reading his emails on his phone.

"Sherlock? Did you hear me?" Again, nothing. No reply, no acknowledgment. "Sherlock!"

He finally turned to look at her. "I heard you Watson. No need to shout. Don't waste energy shouting. " Suddenly a cab pulled up in front of the driveway. Sherlock got in without waiting for Joan, an unusual thing to say the least. Regardless of his often rude behavior, he was always a gentleman, especially where Joan Watson was concerned.

Joan was left standing in the driveway, mouth open, staring at him. "Well?" he shouted to her from the cab. "If you're coming, come along then." After a second's hesitation, she got in the cab and shut the door. Sherlock gave instructions to the cabbie and they headed back to the brownstone.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Joan asked as she turned to him in the back seat. Sherlock sat rigid, pulled up tight in his corner of the cab, as far away from Joan as possible, and stared out the window, not saying a word. "Hey! I asked you a question. Are you mad because there was no crime? Because if you are, that's not my fault," Joan said with a hint of anger in her voice. She, too, was now staring out the window on her side of the cab. The tension in the back seat was palpable. Even the cabbie kept looking in the rearview mirror, watching them. Joan and Sherlock sat there, not looking at each other, silent for the rest of the ride.

The cab had barely stopped in front of the brownstone when Sherlock jumped out, leaving Joan staring after him. She paid the cabbie and got out and, walking into their home, slammed the door shut just as Sherlock had an hour before. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, even with such a short head start entering their home. She decided this was for the best anyway. Let him go off and sulk like a six year old. He'd settle down soon.

The hours passed by. Joan spent most of the time in her room, catching up on a book she had been reading and making some calls to friends. She barely had time for her friends these days. Holmes encouraged her to reach out to them, to go out and have fun. But more and more she realized she enjoyed spending time at home with Holmes, going over cold cases and eating takeout. The few times she went out on a date or with friends, her mind wandered back to the brownstone and to what Holmes was doing. Was he solving a case without her? Was he taking care of Clyde? Was he working on one of his crazy experiments that would cause an explosion? Was he adding stuff to his Wall of Crazy? He even called it his Wall of Crazy now and he said it with pride. And he always beamed with pride when Joan noticed a new addition to The Wall. Joan liked that part the best - when he was proud of her. Somehow, inexplicably, over the past 12 months, Sherlock Holmes, former addict, consulting detective and all around pain the neck, had become her best friend. She couldn't imagine life without him. Best friend. Emily used to be her best friend. But best friends don't doubt your new path in life. They don't question your sanity when you tell them you changed careers. They don't try to stage an "intervention'' when none was needed. They don't compare your new career to a hobby or talk about your new partner and friend with disdain. A true best friend supports you. When you decide to break into a suspect's car, thinking he stored his wife in an old cedar chest that's now in said car, and then get arrested, your best friend shows up to bail you out and tell you all the positive things you did and offers to help you with your first solo case. Your best friend shows up to sit with you while you wait to help another friend in need, even though he knows it's a lost cause and he has better things to do (but he never tells you that). A best friend encourages you to go out with your other friends and have fun, even when you'd rather spend time with him at home, working a case or just sitting companionably in silence.

Her mind suddenly wandered to the night of Captain Gregson's dinner party. She bought a new dress for the occasion. She was excited to finally be able to dress up and go out and have fun for a change. She even persuaded Sherlock to go with her. When she came downstairs and saw him in his blue suit and tie, her breath caught in her throat. She had never seen him in a suit before. Well, he wore those waistcoats and jackets, but it wasn't the same. She tried not to stare as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

When she slid between him and the hall mirror, she could feel him right behind her and, consciously or not, her body leaned back a little, into Sherlock's. As she looked at her face to check her makeup, her heart racing even more now, she couldn't help but take a quick peek at him as he stood behind her. With his dark hair neatly combed and his neat stubble, she realized how truly sexy and handsome he was. She longed to reach her arms behind her and pull him toward her, to feel his arms around her. She didn't notice how he was staring at her, too. She was trying too hard to slow her heart rate, to act normal. Then, without warning, Sherlock backed up so suddenly that it jolted her from her thoughts. The next thing she knew he was putting her coat around her and they were heading out the door.

She had fun at the dinner party. It was nice to be out of the brownstone for once, among good friends that she had come to think of as family. All throughout the dinner she found herself glancing at Sherlock, thinking the same thoughts she was thinking earlier. She kept stopping herself; they were colleagues, partners, best friends. That's it. He doesn't even think of her as anything else. No sense in letting herself wonder what it would be like to be more than friends.

She remembered falling asleep against him in the cab on the ride home. She remembered how it felt to lean against him, falling asleep and feeling safe and warm with him at her side...

Joan realized with a start that she hadn't read a single word of the book she had in front of her. "_Stop it Joan!_" She shook her head to clear her mind. She suddenly realized it had been several hours since she had heard or seen him. He must have been angrier about getting to the "non" crime scene than she thought.

While she enjoyed the peace and quiet, she missed him. She knew he was in the house somewhere, more likely on the roof with his bees, but she still missed him. She would never tell him that of course - his ego was big enough. She laughed out loud at this. No, she would never tell him how much she missed him when she wasn't with him. Or that she got slightly jealous when, while working on a case last month, he resorted (his words) to flirting with a pretty woman. Every time the woman flirted back and touched Holmes' hand, Joan wanted to slap her away. Joan pushed the thought away. She wasn't really jealous, was she? More likely she just didn't like the woman, who was a suspect at the time. Yes, that had to be it. Why would be she jealous when it came to Holmes? They were only friends, right?

Joan tried to go back to her book but couldn't concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to Sherlock. She put her book down and, putting her red woolly sweater on, went upstairs to the roof. Sure enough, there was Holmes, sitting and staring at his bees. He didn't even turn when the door to the roof opened.

Joan walked over and sat down on the bench next to him, not saying a word. Both sat in silence, both staring at the bees. She smiled to herself, thinking back to the day he named a bee after her. Euglossia Watsonia. Now there were several of them in the hive and the hive was buzzing and energized, more so than was usual. Holmes was also thinking of the day he named a bee after his best friend. As Joan Watson brought new energy and happiness into his life, Euglossia Watsonia did the same for the existing hive.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before Holmes finally spoke. "Please don't leave me," he said, barely audible, just above a whisper. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight ahead at the hive. His hands, however, belied his nervousness. His fingers were twitching at his sides.

Joan turned to look at him. She wasn't sure what she heard. She thought he said "Please don't leave me" but she knew that couldn't be true.

"What did you say?" she asked, still looking at him, still puzzled.

"Please don't leave me, Joan. You're...you're my best friend. I don't want you to leave." He still wouldn't look at her but he seemed less tense, almost as if all the nervous energy and fear he had coiled inside him since finding the newspaper in her room had been expelled from his body.

Joan chuckled and said "What makes you think I'm leaving?" She thought this was a joke.

Slowly Sherlock turned to her, anger slowly creeping into his expression. "Don't lie to me, Watson. I know you've seen me at my worst and at my weakest, but I can assure you I can handle the truth." She hasn't seen anger in his eyes since the day they had the argument about his plans to torture and kill Moran. Hard to believe that was almost year ago, back when she was still his sober companion.

She continued to look at him like he was crazy. He stood up so abruptly that the bench they were sitting on moved several inches and Joan was almost forced off of it.

All at once, his anger exploded. He began pacing back and forth, arms jangling at his sides. "You know, I couldn't figure out why you never made your bedroom your own. I kept asking myself: Why hasn't Joan fully moved in? Why is her stuff still in storage after a year?" He stopped pacing for a moment and closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. He let out a loud sigh. Joan took this moment to speak.

"I told you when I first moved in as your sober companion that I don't like to collect stuff. All that stuff in my apartment was just that...stuff. So I left it in storage when I gave up my apartment. I don't need to bring it all here to make it feel like home. You know that."

"Do I?" Sherlock began pacing again. "You've lived with me for a year. You spend all your time with me. We are never apart for more than two to three hours at a time. Yet every day I wonder if you will just up and leave. You have nothing in the house to hold you here. Nothing to show you actually live here; that this is your home."

He stopped suddenly, realizing what he was saying. It was true...he just never admitted it to himself before. Every day, when he woke, he would listen for any sound coming from Joan's room, to confirm for himself that she was still there; that she hadn't left in the middle of the night. When she left the house for any reason, he always let out a little sigh of...what? relief?...when he heard the doorknob turn and heard her heels on the wood floor in the foyer signaling her return to their home. She was back. She hadn't left him. It wasn't until this moment, when his emotions were raw with anger and fear that he realized how much he feared losing her.

Joan was still staring at him, mouth open. She still couldn't figure out what happened to cause this outburst. She only saw that he was in pain and somehow she was the cause of the pain. She moved the short distance to him and put her hand on his arm. "Sherlock, I am home. **You** are my home." The minute she said this, she regretted it. If he realize how she felt about him, he would close himself off; just like Clyde retreating into his shell. She herself only just admitted to herself how she felt about him. Now she told him, in so many words, how she really felt. She removed her hand from his arm and began to turn away, afraid she had destroyed all they built between each other over the past 12 months.

Before she could turn, however, Sherlock grabbed her arm. "Why are you lying to me?" he demanded, anger back in his eyes. He was still holding her arm, but realized how rough he was and eased his grip, but didn't let go completely.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Joan practically screamed at him, yanking her arm away from him. Sherlock moved several inches closer until they were only inches apart. "The apartment you are looking for! When were you going to tell me you were leaving? Or were you even going to tell me?"

Still only inches apart, she stared at him, anger now in her eyes, too. "What are you..."and she trailed off, slowly realizing what he was talking about. "Oh my god, are you talking about the classified ads I circled?"

He stared at her with such anger and intensity she backed up a few inches. "Sherlock, those ads weren't for me. I'm helping Bell find a new apartment. Don't you remember? He told us last month that his apartment building is being turned into a condo co-op and he needs to move. I told him I'd help him find a nice place."

Sherlock kept staring down at her, still close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her face. She could see the anger slowly leave his face, replaced by confusion and then understanding. How could he have forgotten this? He remembered Bell talking about the logistics of trying to find a new apartment in his price range and in such a short period of time; he even remembered Joan offering to help him. Why didn't he - Sherlock Holmes, a man of details - remember this and connect it all when he saw the newspaper in her room?

He knew why. He was so worried about her leaving all these months, he immediately connected the newspaper ads with her leaving for real. Add in the bedroom that she still hadn't bothered to decorate or personalize and his emotions took over; his unconscious fear of losing Watson got in the way. The newspaper ads combined with the bedroom that seemed so impersonal threw him into an emotional tailspin.

Joan was still staring at him, somewhat less confused, but still looking at him like he was crazy. Before he realized what he was doing, he moved toward her and, with one hand, reached out to softly touch her face, caressing her cheek with his thumb. At first startled, Joan slowly turned her face into his hand and closed her eyes, feeling his other hand move through her hair, pushing it behind her ear. Both his hands were now caressing her face, his dark eyes roaming over her like he had never seen her before. He tried to speak but nothing came out. He just kept holding her face, touching her hair. When he leaned his forehead against hers, she reach up with both her hands and held onto his wrists, still holding her.

They stood there like that for what seemed like forever. Both their hearts racing, each wasn't sure if they were hearing the other's heartbeat or their own.

"You are my home, Sherlock," Joan whispered, still holding his wrists. "Don't you remember when Moran was threatening you and Gregson wanted me to go to a safe house? I told him that I go where you go. I meant it then and I mean it now. I go where you go. I would never leave you." She let her hands move from his wrists to his arms and finally, she pulled him even closer. There was no space between their bodies now.

Sherlock finally did what he had been longing to do all these months. His mouth descended on hers, slowly at first, tentatively, gradually increasing in passion. Joan returned the kiss with the same passion. After several minutes they came up for air, still holding on to other, still pressed tightly together. Sherlock took Joan's hand and slowly led her back down to the stairs to the Brownstone; to their home.

Back on the roof, the hive was louder than it had ever been, the bees' frenzied excitement drowning out the sounds of the city as dusk descended.


End file.
